


Chilled

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Pre-Series, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Set in January 2005, she and Dean are on a hunting mission from John when things shift from bone-chilling to heartwarming.





	Chilled

She refuses to let them die like this.

The determination to get him off the road ignites a fire in her far warmer than the declining heat spewing from Baby’s vents. Both she and Dean try to watch where they’re driving: leaning forward, peering out the ice-crusted windshield through squinted eyes. Sure, it’s the midwest in the middle of January, but they aren’t prepared for the impact of this storm.

The snow arrived before the sun that morning. Now late afternoon, it’s still lingering. Over two feet (sixty-one cm) of the fluffy stuff fell in the last twelve hours. The roads--especially the back ones--are covered and slick. The wind swirls, projecting a relentless sheet of white in all directions, complete with a loud, constant roar.

No one else is out in this.

But the 1967 Chevy Impala trudges on, for a mission awaits.

“Dean…” she begins.

“No,” he retorts quickly, aware of what she’s thinking.

As if in response to Dean’s defiance, a patch of ice assaults one of Baby’s rear tires.

She braces herself: one hand on the dashboard, the other on the passenger’s door.

He sits up straight against the seat, trying to anticipate the car’s actions. The black beauty fishtails, which soon becomes full-on skidding. Dean steers in the direction the Impala twists, desperately seeking traction. It doesn’t come until Baby’s off the pavement, rapidly approaching a telephone pole. By some miracle, Dean gets the car slowed to a stop just as the right headlight greets the wooden post. The collision is minor--not even damage-inducing--but it’s _enough_. All the snow that has accumulated at the top of the tall structure comes crashing down onto Baby’s roof.

She shrieks at the sound, new adrenaline coursing through her already-stressed veins. Once her brain accepts that there’s no threat to safety, she collapses against the cool window, panting.

Dean’s grip remains on the wheel. He soon brings his forehead to rest on the leather, too.

As she catches her breath, she starts in on Dean again. “Next motel. No excuses.”

He lifts his head to look at her. He hates disagreeing with his trusted hunting partner of over three years. What he did to deserve her, he’ll never know. She’s his best friend. Really, his _only_ friend. He’s beyond grateful for her. She keeps him sane--or at least as sane as a Hunter can be.

She doesn’t want to hurt him, but her stare is hard. They’ve been driving for eight hours like this. It is almost dark. Nightfall will double the danger.

“I can’t…” Dean’s voice is quieter than she expects.

Her tone is even, almost soothing. “Yes, those kids are disappearing fast. And I don’t _want_ to stop. I know _you_ don’t want to stop, but…”

“I _can’t_ ,” Dean repeats with a little more force, begging her to _hear_ him.

She sighs. “You _have to_.” He opens his mouth, but she doesn’t give him a chance to speak. “No, Dean. We can’t help them if we’re dead. I’m not losing you tonight.” The last sentence comes from nowhere. She almost wants to backpedal, to try and take it back, but she decides it might help her case.

Her last five words hang in the air as he wishes he had a way to bottle them, preserve them.

“Okay,” Dean finally agrees, worry already tensing the angular features of his face.

She reaches across the seat and lightly places her hand on his forearm. Without meeting his eyes, she asks, “Do you want me to call him?”

“No,” he answers, trying not to sound nervous. “I’ll do it.” He could easily extract the phone from his jacket pocket with his right hand, but her grasp is still on him. He’s not about to abandon her touch. Awkwardly, he stretches his left arm across his stomach and pulls out his cell. He flips it open, and scrolls down his _Contacts_ list to _Dad_.

The line rings once, twice… She not only keeps her hold on Dean, she starts sliding her thumb back and forth in an effort to calm him. It’s having a different effect, and his breath catches just as the voice over the line says “hello.”

The phone’s not on _Speaker_ , but being so close in the silent car, she can hear John as clear as day.

“Dad,” Dean addresses him.

“Are you there yet?”

“N-no. We, uh, had a minor accident, and, um…” Dean’s chest tightens. “We’ve gotta get off the road, stay somewhere for the night. It--”

“No way,” John asserts himself. The anger flares up from low in her gut. “You’re not stopping. You can’t be that far off, anyway. How many miles do you have left? Fifty (Eighty km)?”

Dean swallows. “More like two hundred (three hundred twenty-two km).”

“How is that possible?” John all but yells. She and Dean both clamp their eyes shut against the volume.

“The roads are _bad_ , Dad.” Dean’s voice sounds small in comparison to John’s aggressive one.

“Well, that’s not going to keep kids from _dying_ , Dean,” John mimics his eldest son’s tone.

She can see Dean shutting down, so she grabs his cell. “John? Look, we’re going to find a motel. The snow’s to let up in the middle of the night. We’ll leave first thing.” She dislikes John, and while the topic has never been discussed, she’s sure the feeling is mutual.

“If one of them dies tonight, that is on you,” John grumbles.

His punch lands, and she hates herself for allowing it to. But at least Dean didn’t have to take the hit. “Fine.” She snaps the phone closed and extends it to her hunting partner. Sliding over toward to the passenger’s door, she gives Dean a light smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here, huh?”

He’s still a little dazed, but he shifts gears and cautiously returns to the asphalt.

They resume their earlier positions: doing their best to see where they’re going. After about twenty minutes, she catches a sign on the side of the road.

“Rosewood Inn,” she announces. “Five miles (Eight km) ahead.”

Dean briefly nods. She fights to ignore the fact that he has not spoken since his conversation with John.

***

When they arrive at the parking lot, she’s overcome with a sense of relief. The motel--which is not much larger than an average house--barely looks like it’s open. There are too few lights on, leaving an ominous aftertaste in her mouth. But the most important light--the one that says _Vacancy_ \--is shining, so the place will have to do.

As Dean parks Baby, she notes someone tried to shovel a small path to the office. That was about three inches (eight cm) ago. And there’s a good six inches (fifteen cm) surrounding the dormant cars. How did the Impala manage to plow through that much snow?

Dean exits first. He is immediately assaulted with snowflakes and a bitter chill. It’s disorienting, but he travels over to her as she opens her door. He offers her his hand. She accepts it and stands, sinking into the soft blanket beneath her feet. Dean slams the car door with his knee and puts her palm on the crook of his elbow. She understands and wraps both her hands around his bicep. Something in her thaws. Steadying one another, they make it into the motel.

Dean pats the dusting of snowflakes from his jacket while she stomps her boots on the already-soaked mat. There is a bell on the counter, but no need to ring it. The two of them are quite the loud pair. She wonders if the attendant can hear her teeth chattering when he enters the room.

“Welcome,” a man in a navy suit with no tie gushes. “I’m Wayne. May I help you?” Even with his deep skin tone, she detects his nose is a bit red. She’s aware of the cold lingering despite being indoors.

“Can we get your vacancy?” Dean inquires as he approaches the desk. He can’t wait for this day to be over.

She exhales. The sound of his voice similar to a long-awaited spring day.

“Of course!” Wayne snags Dean’s--er, Clifford Alvarez’s--credit card and begins typing on a desktop that may have been around before dinosaurs went extinct.

She crosses her arms over her chest, trying to seal in a little warmth. “Is your heat broken?”

Wayne frowns anxiously. “Not exactly. We have a dozen rooms, and all but one are currently occupied. Their heaters are going on full-blast, no doubt.”

She nods. Being a little chilly is a small price to pay if it means not dying in a white-out.

Wayne passes Dean a key. “You’re in Lucky #12!” She wonders what makes Room 12 so special and decides maybe she doesn’t want to know.

With a jingle, Dean slips her the keyring. Talking to the carpeted floor, he proclaims, “I’ll get our bags and meet you in there.”

He’s out the door before she can protest. She zips up her coat, preparing to face the elements one last time that evening, when she hears Wayne speak.

She pivots toward him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“I said, ‘Well done, girl.’” He gives her a wink before disappearing into the back.

***

Her suspicions are confirmed about Room #12. It’s the room farthest from the office, and she’s afraid she’ll turn into a block of ice before she arrives to the door with a detailed antique rose donning its number. Dean catches up to her just as she rotates the doorknob. They both dart inside, and she locks out the frigid wind.

She painstakingly pushes away the strands of hair that froze to her face. Eventually, she’s attacked by various shades of pink and horrid floral paintings that even her grandmother would not have been caught dead displaying. She notices Dean already placed her bag on one of the vine-patterned comforters and is opening his luggage on the other. Fortunately, both of the beds align the far wall--away from the window and door. Unfortunately, the nip of the January evening extends all the way back there.

With a change of sweatpants and a long-sleeve henley in his grasp, Dean checks the radiator on his way to the bathroom. Without satisfaction, he cranks the knob up one more notch.“As high as it goes,” he reports.

She quietly curses, accepting it’s gonna be a long, cold night. Digging for her warmest outfit--a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeve shirt--she addresses Dean from behind the closed bathroom door. “Think a pizza guy will deliver in this?” She laughs. She figures he’s starving. They’d eaten lunch four hours ago and had protein bars to snack on since, but this is Dean Winchester. He doesn’t reply.

When he re-enters the room, she all but drops her duffel before placing it on a nearby wingback chair. He looks exhausted. Of course, he should be; he’s been driving all day. But it’s more than that. She can feel the tiredness rippling off of him in waves.

“I’m not all that hungry,” he admits, strolling over to his mattress. He’s completely drained.

“Oh.” She’s not, either. In fact, her stomach is suddenly unsettled.

He draws back the comforter and sheet, but remains standing. “I think I’m gonna get some sleep. If that’s okay.”

Those green eyes are so weary, she could cry. “Of course. See you in the morning.”

“‘Night.” He forces a smile and crawls into bed, facing the wall. He has the blankets up to his chin in no time, hoping to block out… everything.

She heads to the bathroom to change and is assaulted by the stench of bleach. The Rosewood Inn is certainly far from four-stars. In the scratched mirror, she observes her blotchy face. She’s unsure how much is from the cold and how much is from the tears announcing themselves with a harsh sting. She pounds the porcelain sink with her fist. If only John knew what he does to his son. She’s been around long enough to see John’s strategy, his games. How he makes Dean the lowest priority on his list. Hell, he puts more effort into monitoring his youngest, Sam, who is away at college. He treats Dean like little more than a machine he operates. Even when scraping the bottom of the barrel, she’s afraid Dean is still unable to come up with any trace of self-worth. And he’s a goddamn hero. A hero she can’t bear the thought of leaving, even if it means also having John’s toxicity sour her life. Dean’s everything to her, and she does all she can to keep him on his feet.

She scrubs at her face with a scratchy washcloth, irritating her skin further. She upgrades to her warmer clothes and flicks off the light.

Tip-toeing, she snatches some water from the cooler. She nears Dean’s nightstand and sets one of the half-frozen bottles beside the tulip lamp.

His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even. But, in sleep, he usually radiates a peaceful glow. Tonight, the furrow of his brow remains. She has to stop herself from reaching out and touching his cheek.

Feeling useless, she bounds into bed. The blankets aren’t doing much to warm her up, but she knows the cause of her chill lies beyond the winter air. She loses track of time, staring at the rise and fall of Dean’s back while he slumbers. At long last, her eyelids grow heavy.

The sound of bedsprings in distress rouses her. She watches as Dean flips over on his mattress. Through squinted, hopefully-masked vision, she spies him fruitlessly adjust the thin covers. He gives up on them and curls into a ball. Within a few seconds, she hears a single ragged breath as he shivers.

That settles it.

Her dry throat grinds out his name. His eyes snap open in surprise, tracing the source of her voice. He’s been made, and he’s _grateful_.

“Are you okay?” She wordlessly berates herself. Of course he’s not.

He doesn’t have the strength to lie. “I’m f-freezing.” He attempts a chuckle, but it’s nearly a sob.

She’s on her feet in a heartbeat. She rips the sheet and comforter from her bed and drapes them over Dean and his matching set.

He examines her, multiple questions combatting for his tongue’s attention.

Hers beats all of his. “Is it okay if I join you?”

He swallows hard at her proposal. “Yes, please.”

For fear of spontaneously combusting, she tries not to consider that she somehow mustered up the courage to ask if she could sleep with Dean Friggin’ Winchester _and_ he friggin’ said yes. He slides over as she crawls in. She’s turned away from him, focusing on the stained doily draping over her nightstand. Despite her best efforts, she falls victim to his subtle-yet-overwhelming scent of leather and fire.

He can’t believe she’s this close. The weight of her in his bed alleviates some of that on his heart. He could never express how badly he needs her tonight. At least, not with words. He shimmies toward her and presses his chest to her back, careful to leave space between their lower bodies. Rather risking the drop in temperature than making her uncomfortable, he removes his left arm from the cozy covers and rests it overtop hers. Several layers of fabric separate their mutually aching skin.

Suddenly, her body is overrun with heat. She refuses to move, worried that the slightest shift will prove that _this isn’t real_.

“Is this okay?” His words mingle with the hair tucked behind her ear.

“Yes,” she manages to squeak.

Receiving the approval he desperately hoped for, he rests his chin lightly against her shoulder.

She can feel his five-o’clock shadow scratching her exposed, flushed skin. Squeezing her eyes shut, she welcomes the highly-craved sensations vibrating through her.

Dean sucks in a shallow breath that gains her attention. Seconds later, there’s a dampness trickling down her neck.

He’s crying.

Her heart is shredded to ribbons. She brings her right hand out from under the blankets and reaches for the arm he has around her. She swirls her fingers just below his watch. “Hey…”

He sniffs. He thought he could hold it together. She already sacrificed the comfort of her own spacious bed to lie next to him, and now he’s keeping her awake with his embarrassing blubbering. “I’m sorry.” He pulls away from her. Once they are no longer touching, he rakes his hand down his face, attempting to wipe away the despair.

She simply will not accept the distance between them. She rotates 180 degrees. His puffy eyes search hers in disbelief.

In complete, steady sincerity, she assures him, “You have nothing to apologize for.” She encases his hand in hers and guides it in her direction. Its destination arrives just before meeting her lips. With the slightest of kisses, she rids his palm of a tear’s trail.

His stomach flip-flops. The amount of time he’s spent thinking about those lips... The way she secures her bottom one between her teeth when she’s mulling over case details. The upward angle to them when she flashes her all-consuming, slightly-crooked smile. The sheer fantasy that he could ever be lucky enough to find out what they _feel_ like. And now that he has, he can’t think straight.

“I…” He chokes out.

Her expression is overrun with concern. She moves closer to him so she can brush her fingers from his shoulder to his wrist, his wrist to his shoulder. Over and over.

The knot in his chest unravels. “I lost Mom…”

She tenses.

“Now, I’ve lost _Sam_ .” His little brother’s name comes out with a grimace of pain and confusion. “I don’t wanna lose Dad. And I _can’t_ lose you.”

His eyes are so open, she reads their mix of distress and vulnerability like a book.

“Everybody le-aves,” his voice cracks.

She raises her palm to his cheek. Her thumb simultaneously sketches her adoration into his freckled skin and dismisses fresh tears.

“If I’m not letting Dad down, I’m letting you down, and I know it can’t last--”

“Dean Winchester,” she commands. His bottom lip twitches at her potency. “You have not once let me down.”

“That’s not true,” he insists. He knows what she deserves, what he _isn’t_.

“The hell it’s not.” She sighs, her tone growing lighter. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve been dead before my 21st birthday. That demon was _this clo_ \--” Her throat betrays her. “You saved my life that day, and have been doing so every day since. Without you, I’d have no one.” A flash of her family bloody on her living room floor dances in her memory. “You’re my world.”

Dean pulls his chin to his chest and sobs through gritted teeth. She’s crying at this point, too. She slides down against his ribs and buries her nose in his shirt.

His arms encircle her with such intensity, he’s worried he hurt her. But she only returns the favor. Their bodies wrap around each other with the strength of a vise.

After ten minutes, they’ve calmed enough to realize they need some air. They reluctantly separate to recover.

When they reunite, it’s softer. Secure, but less desperate. Dean has her waist, and she claims his shoulders. She’s high up on her pillow, her chin aligned with his temple as his head rests in the crook of her neck.

She places a few kisses along his hairline. Unable to resist the temptation this time, his eager lips strain upward to peck at her jaw.

Peering down into his vast, green eyes, she vows, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Of all her life’s accomplishments, the sweet smile that overtakes his face in that moment is the one that grants her the most pride.


End file.
